Chapter 40: The Cost of Hope
Alistair stood with his back to the earthen berm, the desperate sounds of the battle behind him a stark contrast to the silent advance of the Reanimates before him. He was a lone rock against a decaying tide. He had no weapon but his will, and his power was a guttering candle in the overwhelming green gloom.
He would make his stand here. He would buy them seconds, heartbeats, whatever time he could.
He planted his feet, feeling the familiar, comforting solidity of the soil through his worn boots. He reached deep, past the fatigue, past the pain, and pulled on the last dregs of his power. He couldn't raise a mountain. He couldn't shatter the earth. But he could make it cling. He could make it resist.
As the first Reanimates lunged for him, he focused on the ground at their feet. The soil turned thick and heavy, like grasping mud. The shambling corpses slowed, their legs sinking, their jerky movements becoming a strained, slow-motion struggle. It wouldn't stop them, but it would delay them. A few precious moments were won.
A Reanimate with a shattered jaw and one dangling arm broke through the mire, its clawed fingers reaching for his throat. Alistair met it not with magic, but with a raw, desperate punch, channeling a shock of pure earth energy through his fist. The creature's head snapped back, the green light in its eyes flickering, but it didn't fall. It was like punching stone.
He was so focused on the immediate threat that he almost missed the change.
A new sound joined the fray. Not a roar, not a battle cry, but a song.
It was a low, humming chant, rising from behind the earthen wall. It was the Blue-Skins. Their voices wove together, a melody that was ancient and sad and strong. It was a song of the forest, of roots and rivers, of life enduring.
And as they sang, a faint green light began to glow—not the sickly green of corruption, but the vibrant, living green of new leaves and deep moss. It was their innate magic, the Wood Shaping, but not directed at trees. It was being woven into a tapestry of pure, life-affirming energy.
The effect on the Reanimates was immediate and profound.
The creatures faltered. The silent, relentless advance stuttered. The grasping green energy within them seemed to recoil from this chorus of life. Those closest to the berm writhed, their movements becoming uncoordinated, the light in their eyes dimming.
They were vulnerable.
Seeing this, Grok bellowed a new order. "Now! Push them! For Vance Haven! For Stone and Root!"
A renewed wave of hammer-wielding warriors surged over the berm. This time, their blows were not just breaking bodies; they were erasing them. The Reanimates, their connection to the corrupting power momentarily disrupted by the song, shattered into dust with every impact.
The tide turned.
The defenders pushed forward, driving the horde back through the shattered gate, out into the field. The Blue-Skins' song grew louder, a wall of pure life against the deathly fog, pushing it back, cleansing the air.
Alistair, leaning heavily against the berm, watched in exhausted awe. He had given them a wall of earth. They had answered with a wall of song. They had saved themselves.
The last of the Reanimates on the inside were destroyed. The immediate threat was over. A ragged cheer went up, mixed with sobs of relief and cries for the wounded.
Thora found him, her face smeared with soot and something darker. "We held," she said, her voice hoarse.
Alistair could only nod, his body trembling with spent adrenaline and power.
But as he looked around at the cost—the shattered gate, the blood staining the ground, the still forms of the fallen being gently carried away—the victory felt hollow. They had survived, but they were wounded. Their home was violated.
And Varg was still out there.
The blight had not been defeated. It had been shown a new weapon. It had learned.
They had won the battle, but the war had just become infinitely more complicated. The enemy knew their strength now, and it knew their song.